


That's What I Am To You

by morioriohno



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Autism, Autism Spectrum, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morioriohno/pseuds/morioriohno
Summary: From the amazing idontlikecoconut666 on tumblr, I got a kinda long prompt, but I’ll still paste it anyway. “So you can have Caboose be autistic and talk about how as a kid he never fit in with the other kids and had no friends cause ppl saw him as odd or annoying even tho Caboose can’t help it. You can even have the trope where he invites a bunch of ppl to his bday party and no one shows up. Then comes in Church and the reason why Caboose is so attached to him is because he was the first person that actually put up with/accepted Caboose.”I’m honestly kind of nervous to put this one up, because I tried hard to fulfill the prompt but I don’t have any experience writing autistic characters and trying to fill a prompt so quickly while knowing next to nothing about part of the subject matter has made me really nervous about publicizing it. I really hope nobody gets upset about this, I researched what I could and really tried to be true to the prompt. I hope you like it.





	That's What I Am To You

**THAT'S WHAT I AM TO YOU**

...

Caboose has never seen this many empty tables at a party.

The backyard of the Caboose family residence is big, so big that Caboose often finds himself getting lost in it. But today, with the three big fold-out tables taking up a large area of the grass, it looks so small.

He’s not really sure what part of the scene to focus on, but overall he can tell someone _tried_ here. Everything is put just the way he likes it—bright blue cups arranged neatly next to the plates, also blue, every seat set up as if this place was supposed to be the sight of the most amazing banquet in the world. 

Napkins folded neatly around the utensils, party bags—undoubtedly filled with _awesome_ toys—in front of every plate. A big cake stays off to the side of one table, decorated with deep blue frosting and half-finished figurines that Caboose handmade himself. He knows they’re not perfect, but when he showed them to his mother, she hadn’t complained, so in his mind they’re the best part of the cake.

Balloons, shiny and in every shade of blue, just the way he likes them, sway gently in the artificial breeze above the tables, boasting a big number on every side. He knows that number. It’s twelve. And the weather is his favorite, mid-summer sweltering, but not so hot that he feels burning, and there’s a light breeze that makes the whole backyard seem to sway.

But in the breeze the tables are solid as rocks. And at every seat, where there _should_ be someone, there’s emptiness, a stillness. And nobody is there.

Something creaks open behind him. There are footsteps behind him suddenly, dull like muffled thunder, followed immediately by a familiar voice, just as faded. _“—ike. Mike! Michael, where did—oh, man. Oh, man, kiddo, I’m sorry, you were supposed to wait inside.”_

The footfalls get closer and closer but Caboose is busy, he is still. When his father puts a hand on his shoulder, Caboose barely reacts, barely more than a flinch at the sudden, unexpected pressure. There’s so much color everywhere, and so little movement anywhere—and just like the rest of the world, Caboose is frozen. He sees all of this, but in his mind, he’s picturing what is _supposed_ to be there. Caboose can see the party. He’s imagining the laughter of all his sisters as they play in the yard, hears it bouncing off the high wooden fences, a little too loud but happy enough that he thinks he wouldn’t mind. He’s picturing his friends from school, foam guns in their hands as they play a fun game, that one that always looked awesome if they’d just let him join it—except _this_ round, they let him play, and they’re playing _here_ , and everyone is having a good time.

Where are all the people?

_“This isn’t your fault, okay? Michael, this wasn’t…where are your sisters?”_ The hand on Caboose’s shoulder squeezes ever so slightly—something that his father knows he likes. Some vague part of him that isn’t watching the fantasy party in his mind looks at the empty tables and realizes that the tables were set up by his father—the only person left who still knows what he likes.

Caboose opens his mouth and whatever he _thinks_ he wants to say disappears the second he tries to say it, because he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

His father says a word that Caboose doesn’t recognize, though it sounds mean, and yells into the house, _“Carolyn? Where are the rest of you?”_

There’s a muted reply from the house as Big Sis Carolyn lists off a bunch of familiar names and places that, although Caboose doesn’t know them, he can tell that they mean that none of his sisters are here for the party.

None of his sisters. How many of them are there? Seventeen? That’s a lot higher than twelve. He’s twelve today, where are they?

A small whimper escapes his lips as he stares out over the deserted backyard. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. Where are his sisters? Where are all his friends?

They like him, right? Why aren’t they here?

The party in his mind disappears.

_“I…I can’t believe it,”_ his father says. _“I know I didn’t hear back from those other kids, but you’d think they’d show up to a free party.”_

Didn’t show up. Nobody showed up to his twelfth birthday.

The invitations. That’s the first thing that comes to his mind. Maybe it was the invitations. Maybe he forgot to write down the place, or the time, or anything else important that people need to know about the party. He had used his favorite crayons to make those. They were perfect, right? His father had said they were perfect. And he’d handed them out in school and nobody had thrown them away, so they _had_ to be perfect.

_“Man, maybe those invitations…?”_

Caboose whimpers again, and this time, his father notices. _“Oh. Oh, kiddo. C'mere.”_

The world shifts downward as Caboose’s father lifts him up and turns him so he’s not facing the yard anymore, holding Caboose up in his arms. Caboose, still trying to understand why nobody came to his party, doesn’t resist in any way.

_“This isn’t your fault, Michael. You hear me?”_ he says. _“Those invitations were amazing.”_

_“I made them blue,”_ Caboose mumbles, tears coming to his eyes as he wraps his arms around his father.

_“You made them blue,”_ he agrees. _“Blue IS pretty awesome.”_

There’s quiet for a moment between them, and suddenly Caboose can’t hold it in and he starts to cry, and it doesn’t stop, he buries his head and hands in his father’s shirt and lets the salty tears drip through until there’s such a big puddle he can taste it.

_“Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry… You know what, Mike? We don’t need this. We’re going to have our own celebration, just you and me. Won’t that be nice?”_

_“I made them blue,”_ Caboose repeats, mid-sob so the last word kind of comes out like a hiccup.

_“I know, kiddo, I know. A real nice blue, too. Hey, let’s go into town, alright? I’ll let you sit in the front seat. We’ll get ice cream, does that sound good?”_

Caboose sniffles and nods. Ice cream, cotton candy ice cream. That _does_ sound good. But it’s still not the party in his mind, the most awesomest time ever.

He thinks maybe his father notices that, because he shifts Caboose in his arms so he can look him in the eyes. Caboose immediately looks away, uncomfortable with the intensity of the eye contact.

_“Kiddo. Look at me.”_

He shakes his head. 

_“Michael?”_

He knows that voice. It’s the voice that Caboose is supposed to listen to. Caboose looks up, fighting back the tears and failing.

_“You are wonderful, kiddo. And you’re gonna do great things someday, things that matter a whole lot more than this."_

His father smiles, but even Caboose can tell that it’s fake. His father doesn’t believe that, not for a second.

_"Besides. Who needs a stupid party, anyway_ _—”_

“Caboose.”

Caboose jolts back to reality.

He looks down. The cereal box in his hands, the one that had been full a few seconds ago, is empty, with only a handful of its contents having actually entered the bowl. The rest covers the Blue Base kitchen counter and there’s a large pile of it on the floor to his left.

Oops.

He looks over his shoulder at Church seated at the kitchen table, who’s staring at him with a weird look, not quite happy and not quite angry, somewhere in the apathetically frustrated middle. He’s holding his coffee mug like it takes every ounce of restraint in him not to chug it.

Caboose meets Church’s eyes, and before he realizes it his mouth is already running to distract from his mistake. “Oh, yes! Hello, Church. How are you tonight?”

“It’s morn—” Church cuts off with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Nevermind. What the hell was that? I’ve been calling your name for, like, three minutes while you’ve been pouring Fruity Pebbles on the floor. Nice going, by the way. We don’t get a supply drop for another week, so until then, you’re gonna have to eat something else for breakfast.”

Caboose looks back at the floor, where a sea of rainbow cornflakes stares back at him like his own little accident rainbow. He hadn’t noticed any of this. He’d been too caught in the memory.

There’s a bad feeling in his gut. He didn’t like that memory. Didn’t like it at all.

Church groans. “ _Fuck_ , Caboose. Maybe you can, oh, I don’t know, clean it up?”

“…Oh. Oh, okay.”

Caboose keeps staring at Church for a second, then crouches down and starts, one by one, picking up the pieces of cereal and putting them in the garbage. Blue ones first. 

That lasts about a minute before he hears the sharp sound of a chair squeaking against the floor and Church storms out of the room, returning almost immediately with something in his hands. 

Caboose is silent as Church leans down next to him and practically forces a dustpan into his grip. Church is already holding the broom.

“It’s too early for this bullshit. Just hold that,” Church says as he stands. He’s saying it in that voice, the voice like the one Caboose’s father would use.

Caboose nods and holds the handle of the dustpan with both hands—but it’s hard just to hold it lightly and for some reason he’s squeezing the handle like his life depends on it.

There is silence between them as Church starts sweeping the pile towards Caboose, and Caboose just squeezes the handle and keeps the dustpan steady until it’s full and then dumps it into the trash. There’s still a pretty big pile left, though, so they get through a couple more times before Church breaks the silence.

“So, uh…you’re quiet. For once.”

Caboose says nothing as he unloads another dustpan into the garbage.

“I’ve never seen you zone out that bad. _Especially_ not during breakfast.” Church maneuvers the broom so it catches a stray trail of cereal that had gone a little farther. He’s not looking at Caboose, but he doesn’t sound as annoyed anymore. “Something happen?”

Caboose isn’t really sure how to answer that—mostly because he’s not sure _what_ happened. He hasn’t thought about that day for years and years, and even then it was never quite as upsetting.

“You took your pills today, right?”

He nods, then runs through his mind, trying to sort through the jumble that’s always there. Why was he thinking about the birthday? He doesn’t know why he thought of that memory, maybe he—

Caboose starts suddenly and looks up at Church. “What day is today?" 

"What, you mean the date?” Church thinks for a moment, leaning on the broom.

“It’s…uh, I think it’s the twenty-fifth. Wednesday the— _fuck._ Fuck, I _knew_ I forgot something!”

Caboose goes still.

Twenty-five. Caboose knows that number too, it’s even bigger than seventeen. It’s the date of his birthday. Today is his birthday.

Church throws the broom down on the floor so hard it almost bounces. “ _SHIT!_ Caboose, I’m _so_ sorry, I had this whole plan with Tucker and the Reds to make you a cake and have a party but Command just sent us shit rations and I’ve been trying to get them to send us the good stuff for _days_ but they were supposed to get back to me and—”

“It’s okay,” Caboose says, and even he can tell how quiet he is. The whole world feels quiet, too still, again, just like the backyard that day.

Church crouches down in front of him, and after what feels like forever, he quietly puts a hand on Caboose’s shoulder and gives him the tiniest of squeezes. “I’m sorry, buddy. Fuck, I—I’m gonna go call Command again, see if they’ll send something over in the next supply drop—”

“It’s okay,” Caboose repeats, a little louder, though somehow still sounding just as weak. He forces a smile onto his face, trying to remember what it had looked like when his father had done it.

Church doesn’t look like he believes him.

“…Caboose, are you _sure_ it’s okay?”

Caboose swallows his emotions and widens his smile, looking up at Church, and says, “Who needs a stupid party, anyway?”

...


End file.
